


no poodle

by McEnchilada



Category: Frasier (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, Frasier realizes he's gay and that's okay, Gay Frasier, Getting Together, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Patrick Stewart is here and he's the best person Frasier's dated, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-10 22:52:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17434988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McEnchilada/pseuds/McEnchilada
Summary: "Could I ask a small favor of you?""Of course, anything.""Would you mind staying tonight until my other guests have gone? I'd hate my friends to think I'd been jilted."set immediately after s11e3, "The Doctor is Out"





	no poodle

Alistair’s party, much like his opera, was magnificent. Frasier was hardly a stranger to champagne and caviar, and he’d been bumping elbows with the patrons of Seattle’s opera for years, but this soiree was of a different class altogether. He couldn’t think of when he’d last spoken to so many people whose work he admired, patronage he celebrated, or opinion he valued so highly. He felt like he was visiting one of the great courts of Europe; Louis XIV couldn’t have assembled a gathering so calculated to turn Frasier’s head. And somehow, none of them questioned his right to be there.

“You shall do absolutely no such thing, Alistair!” Harriet Alnwick was declaring, with all the authority of the owner of the finest art gallery in the Pacific Northwest. She gestured expansively with her champagne flute, seeking an ally. “Frasier, tell Alistair that he can’t alter a single thing about his wonderful opera.”

“I’m flattered that you think I could change his mind on the matter. Who am I to offer advice to a master?” Frasier said, with a modest smile. Beside him—and hanging on his arm—Alistair snorted and raised their entwined hands to press a kiss to Frasier’s knuckles. On Alistair’s other side—and hanging on _his_ arm—Glinka let out an even louder laugh.

“Oh, isn’t he coy. As though we don’t all know he only needs to bat his eyes and Alistair would call off every show for the rest of the season and stage _Cats_ instead.”

Amid the laughter of his friends, Alistair vainly protested, “I wish you’d stop telling people that, or I’ll have Andrew pitching a tent on my doorstep and refusing to leave until I read his latest little piece. Again!” It was no good; Harriet and the rest were joining in to offer other plays they were sure Frasier could persuade him to sully Seattle’s stage with. Alistair shook his head in despair. “I see I have no friends left here. Come, Frasier, let us seek new comrades closer to the bar.”

“Now, Alistair, be a good sport,” Glinka complained, though she untangled her arm from Alistair’s and latched onto the man on her right instead. “After all, you’re the one who put him forward to take Nigel’s place on the board. The rest of us must do what we can to stop you becoming a despot with him sure to take your side in everything.”

“Oh, you’d be amazed at the points we differ on,” Alistair told her cryptically, steering Frasier away from the circle. Frasier thought he caught a remark at the expense of his chagrined blush as he was led away, though he knew no one present would guess the cause of his mortification. Everyone present was convinced that he and Alistair were utterly taken with each other. They laughed at each other’s jokes, complimented each other’s tastes and talents, shared a thousand interests, and what’s more, looked simply _darling_ together. 

Every time Alistair had left him unattended, it seemed there was someone else who’d been waiting to congratulate Frasier on their supposed relationship. It reminded him somewhat of when he’d been dating Sam, the attorney, except that the well-wishers tonight were delighted for _both_ of them, not just praising Frasier for landing such a catch. He’d had it on the authority of several old friends that Alistair hadn’t been this smitten with someone in absolutely ages, as though he hadn’t felt like enough of a heel already.

At least Niles wasn’t still here making his snide remarks. He and Daphne had left shortly after Frasier had updated them on the situation with Alistair, though not without a last volley to the effect of Frasier being rather old for a rent boy.

Frasier would never admit it, but Niles’s jabs had stung surprisingly sharply. Of course Frasier _wasn’t_ gay, and after tonight everyone’s illusions about his and Alistair’s friendship would be dispelled, but, well… He’d have hoped that, if he had discovered a latent attraction towards men, he would have been able to count on his brother’s support. God knew that their father would have been difficult enough to speak with about it, but Frasier and Niles had both always considered themselves rather progressive. As a psychiatrist, too, he’d have thought Niles would know the importance of self-acceptance, and of the acceptance of loved ones in such events. This entire situation was something of a farce and they both knew it, but nonetheless, Niles’s steady stream of quips had struck Frasier as keenly disappointing.

Well. All moot now, of course.

“I doubt whether either of us needs more champagne, but the bottle _is_ open already,” Alistair said, handing Frasier a flute. Their fingers brushed on the stem; Frasier thought Alistair’s must have lingered for a moment.

“It would be a shame to waste it,” he agreed softly, though for now he just looked down at his wine instead of drinking it. It was an excellent vintage, as worth savoring as every other aspect of the evening. “Alistair...thank you for tonight. It’s been lovely.” He meant all of it: the opera, the party, the past two weeks they’d spent together. He hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in a long time.

Alistair watched him thoughtfully as he sipped his champagne. He had remarkably captivating eyes, at once kind, wise, and clever, and the most beautiful shade of blue. “Yes, it has, hasn’t it.”

Frasier swallowed around a surge of guilt. “I’m sorry it didn’t go the way you’d hoped.” Alistair hadn’t been any less warm after Frasier’s rejection than he’d been from the beginning, but that was all for appearance’s sake. Frasier couldn’t bear to think of how much Alistair had been hurt, and how deeply he was now having to conceal it. “I’ll resign from the Opera Guild board, of course, as soon as you feel is appropriate.”

He looked surprised at that. “Oh? Well, it’s your choice.”

“You mean, you...don’t want me to resign?” Frasier asked, confused and suddenly anxious. Did Alistair hope to make him reconsider? Frasier would hate to have to reject him again. Or could he simply not bear to bid farewell? He wouldn’t be the first to have trouble letting go, having once been granted a taste of what Frasier Crane had to offer. As Da Vinci said, “For once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward…”

“Frasier, you’re a man of remarkable taste and refinement, and a known patron of Seattle’s theatres,” said Alistair, interrupting Frasier’s musing. “I didn’t nominate you in the hopes of getting you into my bed. Well,” he amended, with a charming, half-wistful little smile. “Not _only_ in the hopes of getting you into my bed.”

Frasier felt himself flush to the tips of his ears. Alistair chuckled and laid his free hand at Frasier’s elbow. “Let’s rejoin the party. It’s only a matter of time before everyone begins arguing about which of them can remember the most of _La Triviata_ , and you won’t want to miss that.”

“Alistair, wait.” He just couldn’t shake the guilt that had been nagging him all night. He’d never meant to lead Alistair on, but he’d done it all the same, and his conscience couldn’t rest until he’d made it clear how sorry he was. “I want to apologize, again, for misleading you this whole time. You’re such a lovely man, and you’ve been so kind, and I wish—I mean, if I were… You deserve someone who’s worthy of you, and I’m not—I can’t—that is, if I _could_ —”

“Frasier.” Alistair rolled his eyes, but the way he squeezed Frasier’s bicep seemed meant to console. “Do relax, my dear. You hardly broke my heart tonight. I’ve felt and survived the sting of rejection before now.”

Frasier grimaced and looked back down into the sparkling depths of his champagne. Niles—or his father, Daphne, Roz, Lilith, or anyone else who’d known him longer than a week—would have plenty to say about his inability to let go of anything he perceived as a failing on his part, but he was struggling to put into words just why his apologies so far had seemed so inadequate. Alistair might not resent him for it, but Frasier felt a curious resentment towards _himself_ , for spoiling things. Not just the parties and the personalities and the Capri villas, but the singular pleasure of Alistair’s company, the wonderful conversations that had come to them so easily. The way their wit had sparked like static between them, delighting them both. The unparalleled gratification of a man as brilliant as Alistair Burke wanting to hear his thoughts and valuing his opinion. These two weeks had had a particular joissance that he couldn’t forgive himself for ruining.

Alistair was waiting for him, with the patience and understanding of a saint. Frasier could only force a rueful smile. “It isn’t you, it’s me?” he offered, so woefully insufficient.

“Yes, I should say so. Now, may we get back to my guests? I hope I don’t need to spend all night reassuring you that being straight is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“No, no, of course not,” Frasier hastened to assure him, suddenly sure that Alistair quite correctly thought he was an ass.

“Good, because I’m not sure I could deliver that line very convincingly. Ah, Miguel! Have you met Frasier?”

The party went on, like a glimpse into an Eden that Frasier knew he’d soon be banished from. Everyone in the room was exactly someone he’d love to be friends with, and they wanted to get to know _him_ , even if it was only as Alistair’s new boyfriend. He received invitations to dinners, to brunches, to chalets in the Alps for skiing season, and he said yes to every one of them because he couldn’t face the disappointment he knew was coming. Part of him thought snidely about how wildly envious Niles was sure to be when he told him about this, but another part wanted to keep every memory of this night to himself. If he held his memories of this night close to his chest, never showing them to anyone else, maybe they’d never fade.

As the night wore on, the three-piece band continued to play a magnificent selection, and every time the urge struck him to dance, he found a willing partner. At first, Alistair taking the lead rankled, but he had to admit that the older man was a much better dancer, and being spun around the dancefloor was hardly the worst way to spend an evening. In fact, he never wanted it to end.

Eventually, as had been threatened, Alistair insisted that the party be moved out to the hot tub. It seemed as much a way to pare down the guests on the fringes as it was to benefit Alistair’s core crowd; a number of them began making their excuses as soon as others began shedding their jackets. 

Frasier contemplated pleading an early morning and joining the exodus, but only for a moment. He was having a wonderful time, and in any case he’d promised Alistair that he would remain. He’d disappointed him quite enough for one night.

That did not, however, mean he would be joining the group in the jacuzzi. He was in the middle of a fascinating conversation with Alistair’s dear friend the conductor of the Royal Scottish National Orchestra, and he fully intended to remain there until there was no longer a risk of his being made to strip in front of some of the most important people in Washington. Not even Alistair’s dramatic, “Oh dear, trying to make me jealous?” could sway him, though it received a chorus of chuckles from the room at large. Alistair had kissed Frasier’s hand, heaved an aggrieved sigh, and led the charge with a cry of “Last one in is something rotten in the state of Denmark!”

Even Alistair’s intimates couldn’t spend the entire night swigging superb wine and belting out _La Boheme_ , however, and Hamish left to catch a ride with Alistair’s Mimi. Left alone, having been abandoned by even the weary pianist, Frasier was forced to concede that he had no choice but to brave the treacherous, bubbling waters in search of Alistair.

“Ah, here’s your boytoy!” Glinka announced as Frasier stepped outside. Seated beside her on a teak chaise, Harriet errupted into drunken giggles, burying her face against Glinka’s neck to smother them. They both had luxuriously large, soft-looking towels wrapped around their shoulders, a pile of fabric that looked like the dresses they’d worn to the opera draped over the back of their shared seat. Frasier nodded goodnight to another couple departing through the french doors, and made his way towards the few figures left by the hot tub.

“I’m afraid you missed the pool party,” Alistair told him as he approached. He was reclining on another chaise by the side of the sunken tub, which was now devoid of guests. Alistair’s towel was around his waist, baring his surprisingly hairy chest and quite a lot of leg, especially the leg he had drawn up so that the towel had slid down his thigh almost to his hip. 

Frasier realized he had absolutely no idea if they had swum in their underwear, or if underneath their towels, they were wearing...less. He didn’t consider himself prudish, beyond believing that there was a time and a place to display one’s body; his feeling flustered now must just be because he knew Alistair had hoped to have sex with him this very evening. Gay sex. Very thoroughly gay. Not that there was anything shameful about that, of course, but Frasier certainly wasn’t interested. He could see why someone else would be, perhaps. Alistair was a very handsome man, and evidently in very good shape for his age. But Frasier had no interest in that. His discomfiture was therefore completely natural, knowing what he knew about what he had wanted—what Alistair had wanted, to be clear. Frasier hadn’t wanted anything.

“Would you like to sit down?” Alistair asked, with a smile that seemed to think it knew something.

“Thank you,” Frasier said, perhaps somewhat stiffly, perching on the edge beside Alistair’s hip. The chair was just wide enough that he could just avoid touching Alistair, but he was sure that he could feel the warmth of his body even though the layers of his new, perfectly-tailored tuxedo.

“We were just telling Alistair about a wonderful trip we took to Prague,” Glinka told him. Harriet looked content to let her be the storyteller; she was draped over the blonde’s back like a warm and very sleepy overcoat. “Have you ever been?”

“No, though I’ve always wanted to visit,” he replied honestly. It was one of a dozen cities he’d love to see, a hundred experiences he’d love to have. How many would he never get to, he wondered. He was pushing fifty, and in that moment—tired, conflicted, a little drunk—he felt every day of it. How much of his life had passed him by without pausing? How many chances had he already missed?

He tried to focus as Glinka described the cathedral and the Charles Bridge, but his mind seemed determined to wander. A gentle breeze shook the foliage of the beautifully-tended garden that disappeared into darkness past the patio. The only light out here came from the windows still illuminated as the waiters cleaned up the party, and from the lights below the surface of the water. The diffuse glow rippled over Alistair’s naked legs, a movement that Frasier couldn’t stop following. Alistair’s hands had been laying peacefully in his lap, but as Glinka continued speaking, Frasier felt fingers tracing absent patterns across his back, barely noticeable through his jacket and yet completely impossible to ignore.

Glinka interrupted herself with a noisy yawn, an indeterminate amount of time after Alistair’s touch had become the only thing Frasier could concentrate on. “Well, I suppose that means it’s time to be off home.” She nudged Harriet off of her and the two of them rose. Even wearing only towels, they managed to pull off all the aplomb of two women of a certain class as well as of a certain age. Alistair stood, too, and embraced each of them warmly. “Alistair, dear, your premiere was magnificent, and the after party was almost as good. Frasier?”

“Hm?” He belatedly stood up. He felt drunker than he was, or like his brain was only operating at half speed. The way Alistair draped his arm around Frasier’s waist, as though he did so every day, didn’t help in the slightest.

“Don’t forget that you promised me dinner at _Chez Henri_. I expect those scallops to be everything you promised and more,” she warned playfully.

“Of course. You just name the date.”

“Oh, I’d better wait and see when Alistair’s willing to let someone else enjoy your company for a few hours. I wouldn’t dare try to poach you so soon after a show.” She, Harriet, and Alistair all laughed together at that. The sound seemed to echo after the women had collected their clothes and disappeared into the house.

Alistair sighed as he sat down in their vacated chaise. Frasier realized for the first time how tired he looked; of course, he’d had to work as hard as Frasier to maintain their charade, or even harder because his guests knew him and might spot the lie. He must have been exhausted. “Well, that’s done with.” He cast Frasier a long look. In this lighting, it could only be Frasier’s imagination, but he imagined that Alistair’s eyes had never looked so blue. “Thank you for indulging an old man’s vanity.”

“It was my pleasure.” He was standing stupidly between the two seats. It would be exactly as easy to sit down next to Alistair as it would be to sit down alone. Or he could just leave, his part played; just call a cab, go home, and, in all likelihood, never see Alistair or his friends again. Whatever Alistair said, he knew he couldn’t accept the board membership. He’d make a clean break of it, after tonight.

He took the empty seat, where Alistair couldn’t touch him but still a very long way from calling a taxi, and it felt like bargaining.

“What did you and Hamish talk about?”

“Music, of course. Glasgow. Wine.” They’d been discussing the merits of different regions’ offerings when Hamish had expressed skepticism of Frasier’s ability to identify by taste any wine worth drinking. In the end, Hamish had been duly impressed, and Frasier had had about as much fine wine as the country of Germany managed to produce in a year.

“He plied you with wine from _my_ cellar?” Alistair laughed at the audacity. “I _am_ jealous.”

“There’s no reason to be,” Frasier said, without thinking. Alistair shot him another unreadable look, and Frasier realized, too late, what an insensitive thing it had been to say. Alistair had only been joking; he didn’t need Frasier rushing to remind him that they no longer had the relationship he’d thought they had, one where being jealous of another man might be appropriate. “I mean. If I _were_...you’d be the only man for me. If I were.”

Ten years of eloquence on the radio, and somehow tonight he was left babbling like an infant. Perhaps it was a good thing Alistair’s opinion of him couldn’t get any lower.

Determined not to dwell on his last, loaded remark—he didn’t know what had possessed him to say that out loud, and he refused to examine it—Frasier asked, “So, when do you want to break up?”

“I thought we already did so.” He was still watching him, wearing the same kind of look psychiatrists liked to give the person on their couch. It said, “I know exactly what you’re not telling me, and I can wait you out.”

Frasier squirmed, plucking at a cufflink. “I mean publicly.” He was thinking about Mel’s ridiculous demands for her and Niles’s divorce. Of course Alistair would never go to such petty lengths, but if he wanted Frasier to accompany him to a few more dinners, another night at the theatre… Frasier felt rather obliged to agree to it. He owed him that much, at least.

“When we do break up,” Frasier added uncomfortably, “I’m happy to take the blame for it, when people ask.”

“Why?”

Frasier shrugged. There was no acceptable way to say, “Because I can’t think of anything _you_ could have done to ruin things.” He couldn’t tell him, “If I _was_ gay, you’d be everything I wanted.” The best reason he could give was, “Well, your friends won’t miss me anyway, so there’s no sense in maintaining their good opinions of me. You might as well get some sympathy out of this whole thing.”

It was a weak attempt at humor, so he was surprised when Alistair laughed, much louder and far longer than Frasier’s remark deserved.

“Frasier,” said Alistair, sitting up and turning to face him fully, “please don’t think I’m trying to talk you into anything, but I must ask: are you quite sure that you aren’t gay?”

Frasier had been asked that question many, many times in his life, by school bullies and strangers and one or two unhappy ex-girlfriends. Usually, it was in tones of derision, disgust, or a rather morbid curiosity. No one had ever asked him so reasonably, or with so much understanding in their expression, and the difference caught him off-guard. Barbed words were easy to counter; he’d had plenty of practice. But Alistair’s open, inquiring smile was new territory.

“Wh—of course I’m sure!”

Alistair spread his hands placatingly. “Because, you know, you aren’t the first straight man I’ve inadvertently propositioned. Even the ones who weren’t actively unpleasant never had as much trouble rejecting me as you seem to be.”

Well, that was—That—The nerve of the man, honestly!

“I don’t know what you mean,” Frasier said snippily, with a sniff and a toss of his head.

“My dear, you haven’t stopped apologizing to me all night. You’re taking it harder than I am.”

Frasier stood, drawing himself to his full height and summoning all the affronted dignity he could muster. “Perhaps I’m just mourning the loss of Bertolucci’s villa. Or the concert in Madrid.” It was far from his strongest defense, but it would do as a placeholder. Better to sound shallow than to linger on emotions that made his heart race and which he would never admit to in any case. “Or this lovely watch, which I must insist that I return.”

“I insist that you keep it,” Alistair countered, rising and putting his hand over Frasier’s as he fumbled with the watchband. His fingers were cold; Frasier wanted to propose that they go inside, or that Alistair put on clothes. He wanted to take Alistair’s hands in his and just hold them. “And I could still take you with me to Madrid. I think you and Placido would get on famously.”

“No, that isn’t it,” he admitted, because Alistair clearly knew that. Frasier stared hard at their touching hands, then up at Alistair’s face. He grimaced. “I suppose I feel guilty for leading you on.”

“Leading me on? Frasier, darling, you’ll find I’m quite able to take responsibility for my own choices.”

“I know, but—”

“All you ever indicated was that you enjoyed my friendship. The other conclusions I drew must simply have been wishful thinking on my part.” His smile was unbearably small and self-deprecating. Frasier’s heart clenched at the sight.

“I did enjoy your friendship,” he said. “More than I can say. You really are a wonderful man, Alistair.” Alistair lifted his hand from Frasier’s, to wave away the compliment. Frasier couldn’t stand to think that Alistair might not believe he was being sincere. “I mean that. I don’t know the last time I liked someone as much as you. You’re brilliant, sophisticated, charming. And in pretty good shape, too,” he added lightly, hamming it up with a grin.

“Flatterer,” Alistair accused, and winked teasingly. He really was beautiful, though. On one side, he was highlighted in gold from the lights on in the house; on the other, he was lit a softer blue by the pool lights. From a purely aesthetic point of view, he was stunning.

“I...wish I was the man you want me to be.” Out here, this late, alone, he could almost admit the terrifying truth.

Alistair didn’t reply immediately. His expression was open, perhaps wistful, but Frasier had no idea how to read the thoughts behind it. His fingers brushed Frasier’s cheek once, and then he stepped away. From the detritus of the party that littered the patio, he uncovered a glass and a half-full bottle of half-flat champagne, and poured himself a drink. Frasier watched him, waiting, not sure what there was left for him to say.

“You understand why I wondered?” he asked at last, looking down into the water instead of at Frasier.

“I suppose so.” _He_ would wonder, too, if it was anyone else. But Frasier knew himself. He couldn't have kept something like that buried in his subconscious. He would know by now. Introspection was a crucial duty for any good psychiatrist. After all this time, all those failed relationships, all that self-examination to work out what his life was missing and why nothing was ever enough to satisfy him...he wouldn’t have missed this as the answer.

Would he?

“What would you say, if someone called in to your show with a problem like this?” He was being sarcastic; Frasier supposed that bitterness was a reasonable response to the situation, but he couldn’t help but bristle.

“I avoid making assumptions about people’s sexualities after a single phone call,” he answered piously, ignoring his conscience weighing in in regards to the assumptions he’d been happy to make about Barry.

“No, you don’t, you merely assume they’re all straight.”

“Well, most people are!”

“Yes, and wouldn’t it be so much simpler if those pesky homosexuals were always easy to spot?” He raised an eyebrow, daring Frasier to contradict him. Frasier swallowed his retort sheepishly. “Anyway, humor me. ‘Dr. Crane, I’m not gay, but there’s a man who makes me wish I was.’ What would you tell him?”

“I suppose I...I’d ask if he was sure he wasn’t gay.”

“Is he sure?”

“Yes. He’s entirely sure.” He’d done an exercise like this with Dr. Tewksbury once, he recalled. He hadn’t been able to work out why receiving a lifetime achievement award had felt so unfulfilling, like his life had been without any lasting meaning. His mentor had accused him of running from his emotions, but that certainly wasn’t the problem here. Dr. Tewksbury would be astonished at the volume of feelings that Frasier was drowning in. He could barely keep track of the facts amid the deluge.

“How does he know?”

“He’s been married twice, for God’s sake. If he was going to have a sexual identity crisis, surely it would have occurred years ago.”

“Gay men marry women all the time.” Alistair would know, of course; he’d told Frasier how much he regretted how much pain he’d caused his ex-wife when he’d come out. But he’d never regretted that he had.

“Yes, well, perhaps he’s just hopeless at relationships.”

“Is there a common factor in all of them?”

“You mean, is it because he’s only dated women? I suppose it’s possible! But he can’t exactly help who he’s attracted to, can he?”

“No, he can’t. So what makes this other man so special, that your caller can’t get him off of his mind?”

“It could be any number of things! Perhaps their shared interests. Perhaps he makes him feel special. Maybe I—maybe the caller is just lonely, and he’s simply confusing strong platonic compatibility with romantic chemistry.” That should have been a good enough answer to satisfy him, but it wasn’t, not quite. He tried again, “Maybe he’s tired of his failures in love. His subconscious has latched onto something unfulfillable, so that he can never truly have failed it, because he’ll never try.”

“And what makes him so sure it’s unfulfillable?”

Dr. Tewksbury could take lessons from Alistair. The director’s gaze pierced Frasier’s soul like the professor’s never had, demanding that he keep going. If he dug far enough into his own psyche, maybe the pressure would let up and Alistair would let him retreat, back to where he wasn’t so horribly exposed.

“Because...it’s impossible. He’s too old for this kind of thing. He would have known by now. There are too many people he would have to tell: his friends, his ex-wife, his son, his brother, his...father. They wouldn’t understand.” He swallowed hard, too late to choke back the words. They wouldn’t understand. Niles would quip, and try to tell him that he was confused. Daphne would have some inane, confusing remarks, probably to do with her brothers. He couldn’t imagine what Freddy would think of it, his dad being gay. Lilith would be furious that she’d had _two_ husbands who’d turned out to be homosexual.

Actually, Roz might just be thrilled that she’d have a whole new slew of people to set him up on dates with.

But Martin wouldn’t even stay in the room to hear him out. He would never let Frasier say the words.

Alistair seemed to understand he wasn’t ready to continue, and waited in silence. After a minute of hard blinking, Frasier added, so quietly that he could pretend he wasn’t the one to say it, “Because the thought of admitting it scares him to death.”

If Alistair had looked pitying, Frasier might have mustered the defiance to storm out and never see him again. But all he saw was a deep, aching understanding in that sad twist of a smile. “So what would you advise him to do?”

“I don’t know.” He shoved his hands deep in his pockets. Then he changed his mind, and crossed his arms over his chest. But that looked defensive, so he tugged at his bowtie until the knot fell apart. He remembered Alistair telling him how sexy he looked in his tux. He shoved his hands into his pockets again. “What do you think I should tell him?”

Martin was always accusing him of ignoring any advice he was given, even when he’d asked for it. Well, this time he needed help. He was asking. He was listening.

Alistair took a step toward him, setting down his wine glass on a chaise and loosely clenching his hands at his sides. It occurred to Frasier that he might be nervous, too. “Is he happy, going on as he has been?”

“No. Never for long.” Nothing ever turned out to be enough.

“The other man, would he be worth it?”

“He hopes so.” He thought about Capri, and opera premiers. He thought about easy laughter and undemanding companionship. He thought about being led around the dance floor. He admitted, “I think he would be.”

He heard Alistair exhale in a rush, like he’d been holding his breath. “So, what’s stopping him?”

Alistair was close enough now for Frasier to see the goosebumps along his arms. It was much too late for them to still be awake, too cold to still be outside. If this moment was disturbed, Frasier thought he’d die.

“He’s afraid.” They were both speaking in whispers now, the only people in the entire world, and Frasier couldn’t look away from Alistair’s mouth.

“So what would you tell him to do, Dr. Crane?” Alistair asked, his breath hot on Frasier’s lips.

“I’d tell him…” Frasier’s hands were shaking. His thoughts were lost in static. He closed his eyes, and reached out.

“I’d tell him to stop being such a damn coward.”

He thought it was probably the best advice he’d ever given.

He thought Alistair would agree.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have anything against German wine. I don't know if Frasier has anything against German wine. But getting into character as Frasier Crane means sometimes you say critical things because the wording seemed clever at the time.
> 
> Obviously bisexuality exists, and arguably might've been a little easier for Frasier to accept. But I feel like Frasier's a man with very binary views of the world, and also, is a gay man. His brother, on the other hand,
> 
> The title comes from the episode, when the Cranes are discussing Barry and Martin says, "That guy's not gay. Know how you can tell? _The muscles_ " and Niles replies, "Ah, yes. And the second tip-off: no poodle."
> 
> Finally, does Alistair have anything on under the towel? That's entirely up to you to decide. (Frasier learns the answer, but he's not telling.)
> 
> (not beta read)


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